"I knew him better than either of you, his weakness, his indecision; but
it was not for me to warn you, how could I? Then, Marie, changes came to
all of us. McAllister came into his inheritance; you went to seek your
fortune; I to work hard in a merchant's office in Montreal. For four
years, I labored there at most uncongenial work, but I managed to scrape
enough together to pay for my course of study at the school of one of the
best masters in Paris. These years of drudgery in Montreal and Paris were
only brightened by one hope--a hope I scarcely dared acknowledge to
myself, so vain did it appear."

"Yes," said Marie. "But you have succeeded, and your hope has been
realized."

"It has not been realized; it is as far from realization as ever."

"I am astonished to hear you speak in such a way after your brilliant
success of yesterday."

"Yes, success is satisfactory, and it is a means to an end in this case.
Marie, my dear one, through all those long years of drudgery I heard of
you only through M. Bois-le-Duc at rare intervals. But, through all that
weary time, I never ceased to think of you, though as one far, far
removed from me. Then you rose to fame and wealth; to me, a poor
struggling artist, further off than ever, and for a time I despaired. You
were fêted by the highest in the land, all London was at your feet--what
had I to do with the brilliant prima donna? What claim had I to remind
her of the old days at Father Point, of my life-long devotion? Oh! Marie,
my darling, to keep silence, to think that I might lose you after all,
was almost unendurable. Now, though, I _can_ speak. I, too, have achieved